


Hey Little Girl

by inlovewithnight



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Age Play, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian dressed as Hit Girl for Halloween. Somebody had to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FifteenDozenTimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FifteenDozenTimes/gifts).



Ian tugged the skirt up to his waist and wiggled as he fought the zipper up the last inch. Girls' clothing sizes made no freaking sense. But, there. He smoothed the front down and studied himself in the mirror, planting his fists on his hips in superhero pose. Yeah, that would work. That would work good.

"Naughty schoolgirl?" Dallon leaned on the wall beside the mirror and looked Ian up and down. "Of the Catholic persuasion?"

"Not even close." Ian tried a sassier pose, thrusting one hip forward and ducking his chin. "Check the wig, maybe that'll help."

Dallon moved over to the couch and rummaged through the bags from Halloweentown, laughing softly. "Kneesocks and knee _pads_ , dude, I'm still seeing Catholic schoolgirl..."

"Rude."

"Ah-ha." Dallon held up the shiny purple wig on his palm and fussed with the strands, coaxing them all to lie flat. " _Kick-Ass_."

"Hit Girl," Ian corrected patiently, turning to try the other hip forward and see if that was any better. He looked awesome wearing nothing but the skirt. Maybe he should just go like that. "Or maybe a trendy Scotsman. Do we have any blue facepaint? I can be a sassy Braveheart."

Dallon didn't answer, and when Ian looked over his shoulder to see if he was still there, he was twirling the wig on his fingers slowly. "Dude? Dallon. Zone in, Weekes."

Dallon blinked at him. "Put the wig on."

"What? Why?"

"Just...just for a minute. Put the wig on." He rolled his eyes at Ian's skeptical look. "I want to see it. Don't be a douche."

"Okay, weirdo." Ian took the wig and set it on top of his head, making a face at himself in the mirror as his curls jutted out through the purple in rough bunches. "Like it? Hot, right?"

Dallon did one of those frustrated old-dude sighs he was so good at. "Do it _right_ , Ian, come on." He stepped up behind Ian at the mirror and took the wig off again, brushing Ian's hair back from his forehead tightly with his free hand and pulling the wig down over it, arranging the lining to hold Ian's hair in as much as possible. "You need a real wig cap for the show."

"Dude, I think you're taking this a little too seriously." Ian stuck his tongue out at Dallon in the mirror, shaking his ass a little to see what the skirt would do. "Seriously, why don't girls wear these, like, all the time? Ventilation. It's awesome."

"Stand still for a minute, would you?"

"Why?"

"For the love of...why do you ask so many _questions_?"

Ian frowned and tossed his head, making the wig bounce against his cheeks. That felt pretty awesome. "You just asked a question."

"Ian." Dallon's hands landed on Ian's shoulders firmly enough to make him jump. Wow. Dallon had...really big hands. Solid hands. Where did that come from? Oh right, playing bass. "Shut up for two seconds. Please."

It was on the tip of Ian's tongue to ask _why_ again, but since Dallon asked nicely and could apparently break Ian's neck with his little finger, he obediently shut up. He studied their reflection in the mirror, Dallon's hands on his shoulders, Dallon's head above his, Dallon's eyes all wide and his mouth open a little.

Ian squinted at that last bit of the reflection again. "Dude, you're totally into this."

"What?" Dallon let go of him and took a step back. "I am not."

"Dude. You are a _total secret perv_." Ian threw his arms up in victory. "I win so many bets right now."

Dallon rolled his eyes and smacked Ian on the ass in what was probably supposed to be a dudely, bro-like way. Ian really had a total and complete obligation to ruin it by wiggling his hips and moaning.

"You're a dick, Crawford," Dallon said, folding his arms over his chest and glaring down at him like Ian was supposed to be impressed by his height.

"No I'm not." Ian wiggled again. "I'm a very naughty girl."

Dallon's eyes narrowed a little, and Ian remembered that he had been training in escalation with Brendon and Spencer for just as long as Ian himself had. Whoops.

"You are, aren't you." Dallon stepped toward him again, reaching out to catch Ian's wrist. "A bad, bad little girl."

Ian was not going to be outdone by Lurch the Vegas Troubadour. "Oooh, Daddy," he said. Dallon shook his head slightly, and Ian bounced a little on his toes, trying to improvise. "I mean, you mean old man, you."

"Take it easy, little girl." Dallon tugged lightly, bringing Ian along with him as he moved over to the couch and flopped down, knees splayed wide. Ian shook his wrist free and put his hands on his hips again.

"Mr. Weekes," he said, tossing his head to make the wig flip again. It was only fair to give the dude an out. He might not fully understand the level he was playing at, after all. This wasn't Vegas. This was tour. "I'm not sure this is appropriate."

Dallon rubbed his hands on his thighs and raised an eyebrow at him. "Want some candy, sweetheart?"

So Lurch came to _play_. Game on. "You got some for me?"

"Oh, I got something for you, all right." Dallon patted his lap and Ian bit down on his tongue to keep from giggling. Climbing up on the couch and straddling Dallon was super-easy--another thing skirts were great for! seriously, girls should wear them _all the time!_ \--and they were eye to eye.

Ian opened his mouth to say something--something smartass, funny, to snap the slowly-growing tension--but he forgot to when Dallon's hands settled on his hips. Dallon wasn't holding him down, exactly, just steadying him, but his grip was warm and _solid_ , enough that Ian knew he wasn't going anywhere unless he made an effort.

Dallon's thumbs slid in slow arcs along Ian's thighs, bunching the fabric of the skirt, and he didn't blink, holding Ian's gaze.

"Oh," Ian said, kind of high-pitched and faintly. Oh.

Dallon's right hand slipped off his hip, down to his knee and then up again, under the skirt. He was still looking Ian in the eye, challenging, and Ian blinked first, his eyes snapping closed when Dallon's fingers moved up between his legs, two fingers pressing against the skin behind his balls.

"Pretty little thing," Dallon said, his breath warm against Ian's mouth. He wrapped his hand around Ian's balls and gave a slow, careful squeeze until Ian gasped, his breath stuttering and his head falling back. He let go and eased his hand away, rubbing Ian's thigh again. "Turn around."

"What?" Ian blinked at him, wanting his hand back right where it was--maybe a little more _nicely_ but yeah, definitely back up there in dick vicinity.

"Turn around." Dallon put his hand back to Ian's hip and started to guide him through the turn, moving him like a toy.

"You want me to sit on your lap?"

Dallon laughed a little, the sound not quite solid, half a huff of air. His arm wrapped around Ian's waist and pulled him back close to Dallon's chest, holding him still. Ian shifted against him, and yes, that was definitely Dallon's dick he was sitting on. Affirmative. All systems go.

Dallon's free hand went up Ian's skirt again and this time Ian couldn't help it, he squeaked out loud. "Shh," Dallon mumbled against the back of his neck. "Okay?"

"Y-yeah. Fuck."

"Bad words." Dallon tightened his arm around Ian's waist. "Wash your mouth out with soap."

"S-sorry." Ian tipped his head back and squirmed against him again as Dallon's hand started to move, fondling him slowly under the skirt. "Oh Je...jelly doughnuts."

It was tricky, figuring out how to move so that it worked for Dallon--especially since he wasn't saying anything helpful, like _that's good_ or _do that more_ , just kind of grunting low in his throat and sometimes tightening his arm around Ian in what Ian was pretty sure was a good way--and the angle Dallon's wrist was at in order to get up under Ian's skirt had to be kind of uncomfortable, but fuck if this wasn't working really, really well as far as Team Ian's Dick was concerned. Dallon was a kinky, filthy freak. Ian was going to move into his bunk with him and when tour was over he was going to live under the dining-room table at his house. Breezy wouldn't mind. Breezy thought Ian was adorable.

"You've got such a h-hot..." Dallon groaned softly and thrust up against him, and maybe Ian had figured out this how-to-move thing after all, because Dallon's dick slid right along the cleft of his ass. "Tight little..."

Ian was kind of hoping Dallon would finish that thought, because if it was going where he thought it was going, then Dallon was graduating from filthy freak to _superfreak_ and Ian would abandon all sanity and put it on Twitter, but apparently there were limits. Jerk.

But Dallon's hand was still on him, all rough and tight and moving faster now, coaxing him along while he thrust up against Ian's ass like he was really serious about coming in his jeans. "Fuck," Ian gasped, grinding down against Dallon's dick and then up into his hand, feeling his stomach tighten up all _almostthere_. "Fuck, c'mon, more."

Dallon laughed against the back of his neck, breathless and desperate. "S-say please."

"Pretty please," Ian said, digging his fingers into the edge of the couch, and Dallon stroked him again, just a little tighter, thumb sliding across the head just right, and Ian came hot and messy all over the inside of his skirt and his own thighs.

Dallon's arm tightened around him again and he thrust with purpose, fucking up against Ian a few times before shuddering and slumping back against the couch. "Shit."

"Yeah." Ian leaned back against him, eyes closed. "I had no idea you were such a pervert, Weekes. I'm gonna use this against you, you know that, right? Blackmail central."

"Shut up, Crawford."

"I just wanted you to know."

"Shut _up_." Dallon ran his hand down Ian's back, more gently than his words, then nudged him off his lap. "I've gotta get changed, now."

"Yeah." Ian looked down at the skirt and frowned, pulling it away from where it clung to his skin. "I'm gonna have to Febreeze the crap out of this before Halloween."

Dallon rolled his eyes and adjusted himself as he started for the door. "Whatever. Like Brendon doesn't go on stage smelling like jizz every single night."


End file.
